A Man About the House
by pebbles66
Summary: Mrs. Hudson suffers an accident whilst home alone, and discovers that possibly her lodgers are NOT the "worst tenants in London" after all.


Mrs. Martha Hudson had always been a strong, self-reliant woman, and so it was no great hardship for her to manage 221b Baker Street alone. After all, she'd been widowed for some time before she even considered taking in lodgers to help with the rent. As a widow, she'd had to learn to do some of the heavier work around the house by herself. She could haul water and carry coal with the best of them. And she'd learned to work the boiler and stoke the fires quite well, both tasks which her husband had formerly handled.

She'd also learned to make do without some of the amenities she'd formerly been used to. She no longer had need of a real staff: She'd dismissed the one full-time servant, and now managed quite well with only a part-time maid. Mrs. Hudson did most of the laundry herself, although she sent some of it out to the laundress down the street. She quite enjoyed cooking, and while she couldn't say she _enjoyed_ housework, it did give her some time alone with her thoughts, and a sense of accomplishment when it was finished. For that she was grateful.

She'd never minded the quiet, and although she missed the companionship of her dear Alfred, she was rarely lonely. She had several nieces and nephews, her sisters, and many friends and activities to keep her busy, not to mention her two lodgers, who were nice, polite young gentlemen, eccentric though they might be. Overall she was content with her life and its circumstances.

In fact, she'd often thought of herself as completely self-sufficient, totally able to take care of herself and her household, and with no need for anyone else. Her sisters asked when she would begin to entertain gentlemen friends again, remarking that a man was needed around the house, and that she was much too young to remain a widow for the rest of her life; to which she replied that she had no need of any man, thank you very much.

So it was with some surprise that she found one evening just how useful it could be to have a man – or two - about the house.

It was some weeks after her two tenants had moved in. The three of them, after some awkward maneuverings at first, had settled into a peaceful (for the most part) coexistence. Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes appeared to be quite happy with their new surroundings, and indeed overjoyed with the board she provided, while she was enjoying the new-found financial security their rent payments supplied.

The doctor and Mr. Holmes kept irregular schedules, and Mrs. Hudson found that her orderly, quiet existence was now a thing of the past. She seldom knew if one or both of them would be present at mealtimes, and so had also learned to "make do" with what was available if they returned unexpectedly, or if the food in the pantry needed to stretch a little more.

But today was a quiet day. Both gentlemen had been away for most of the day, Dr. Watson working at St. Bart's Hospital, and Mr. Holmes doing whatever it was he did when he wasn't lounging around the sitting room upstairs, polluting the entire house with strong black smoke. They'd told Mrs. Hudson they'd meet later for tea and not to expect them back till supper.

Mrs. Hudson had been quite enjoying a day to herself. It was a rare treat to not have one or both of her lodgers underfoot during the day while she attempted to get the housework and tidying done. She'd even finished her chores betimes, and had been able to enjoy a few chapters of her book over a leisurely cup of tea. In fact, she'd been enjoying herself so much that she quite lost track of the time, and glanced up at the chiming of the clock with an exclamation of dismay.

She had less than an hour till she expected her tenants to return. It was high time to begin preparations for supper. She knew from past experience that both gentlemen would be ravenous after a day away from home, for apparently they were unable to find time for regular meals unless she was the one who provided them. Fortunately, she'd baked this morning and started a roast earlier, and now all that was left to do was to chop the accompanying vegetables and put them on to cook.

Setting aside her book and empty teacup, she went into the kitchen and tied her apron around her waist.

Going to her pantry, she selected several potatoes and parsnips_. These will go nicely_ _with a roast,_ she thought. She went back to the pump, scrubbed the vegetables quickly but thoroughly, and gathered her cutting board and favorite kitchen knife. She also filled a large pot with water and put it on to boil so it would be ready when the vegetables were prepared.

As she pulled the knife from its sheath, Mrs. Hudson noted absently how dull it had become. It had been some time since she'd had it tended – another job her husband had formerly handled, and one that she'd often neglected in the years since. She made a mental note to take the knife down to the blacksmith for sharpening, thinking of several other small tasks that needed completing.

She set the cutting board out on the kitchen sideboard and began to peel the potatoes. She was trying to hurry, not sure when exactly her tenants would return, and unfortunately, not really paying attention to her work. A sudden loud noise out on the street caused her concentration to waver, and she suddenly felt a sharp pain followed by the warm drizzle of blood as she sliced into her hand with the knife.

She gasped in shock, dropping the knife, and hurrying to the sink to clean away the blood. Awkwardly maneuvering the pump handle with only one hand, she rinsed her hand quickly in order to get a better look at the wound. What she saw made her feel slightly ill.

She had sliced cleanly into her hand right at the thumb joint. The cut was jagged and very deep, with a small glimmer of white bone just visible. And it was beginning to bleed profusely. She wasn't a doctor, or even a nurse, but she'd seen enough accidents to know that this was something she couldn't take care of on her own. Mrs. Hudson wrapped a clean kitchen towel around her hand and sank down into a kitchen chair as a wave of nausea swept over her.

Mrs. Hudson took a deep breath to steady herself, and raised a trembling hand to wipe at the tears which had started in her eyes. The first shock of the injury was passing, and her hand was beginning to throb with a vengeance. Vaguely she remembered reading somewhere that a bleeding wound should be elevated if possible, so she held her hand up above the level of her heart as she thought of what to do. The blood was beginning to soak through the towel, and she knew she was going to have to find some help.

Taking another steadying breath, Mrs. Hudson got to her feet and walked slowly back through the hall and into her own sitting room to her sewing supplies, continuing to hold her hand up high and absently noting the trail of blood droplets in her wake. She had some muslin here somewhere, left over from a sewing project. She'd intended to use it to line a blouse, but decided that it would be better suited as a bandage at present.

After digging through her sewing basket, she located the muslin and her sewing shears, and sat down to slice up the fabric. She became peripherally aware that the towel she'd wrapped around her hand was now saturated, and that blood was running down her arm. She was beginning to feel very dizzy again. She knew she needed to go for a neighbor, or perhaps the commissionaire next door, and made to rise to her feet, but just at that moment there was a roaring in her ears, and everything faded swiftly to black.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Some time later, unbeknownst to their poor landlady, a key jangled in the lock and the front door opened with a bang. Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes stepped into the hall, talking and laughing together over the deductions Holmes had just made about a rather large man they'd passed in the street.

"Holmes!" Dr. Watson protested, still laughing, but trying desperately to stop. "You mustn't say such things so loudly! What if he'd heard you?"

"Doctor," replied Holmes, grinning back at him. "Everything I said was completely and utterly true. I was merely stating the obvious!" The detective's eyes glinted with merriment as he turned away to hang up his coat and hat.

"Yes," countered the doctor, joining him at the rack, "but he can't help it if…" Dr. Watson trailed off as he turned to see Holmes standing transfixed. The detective held up his hand, gesturing to several spots on the floor.

"What in blazes…", Watson began, but again broke off as the detective swiftly knelt down and touched one of the droplets.

Sherlock Holmes looked up at the doctor with horrified eyes as he said: "Blood!" The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then both blanched as they said together: "Mrs. Hudson!"

Barely stopping to think, Holmes raced into the kitchen. He quickly glanced around the room, taking in the cutting board and vegetables, and then going to the sink. There he found the bloodied knife and quickly deduced what had happened. The detective pounded back out into the hall, only to find it empty. He stopped for only a moment, and turned at Dr. Watson's shout.

"Holmes! Get my bag!"

The detective raced up the stairs to their shared sitting room, throwing open the door with a crash, and standing still for a moment, cast his eyes around in frantic search of Watson's medical bag. He located it under the doctor's desk, snatched it up and tore back down the stairs three treads at a time. He jumped down the last set, skidded a little on the polished floor, and then followed the trail of blood droplets into Mrs. Hudson's sitting room.

There he found Dr. Watson tending to Mrs. Hudson. The poor woman was slumped back in her chair, seemingly unconscious. Dr. Watson had taken up the muslin she had been ripping and was holding it tightly over her hand in an attempt to stem the blood flow. Even now blood was oozing through the thin cloth.

Holmes brought the bag to the doctor, who took it in his left hand, saying: "Holmes, will you keep pressure on this? I need to find my smelling salts, and then I'll need to get this gash cleaned up and stitched. It will take me a few minutes to get everything ready, and I need you to keep direct pressure on the wound until I've everything prepared."

The detective nodded, noting exactly how Watson was holding the muslin to the wound so he could mimic the doctor's grip over the wound. "Of course, doctor."

Dr. Watson relinquished his hold on Mrs. Hudson's hand and began to rummage in his bag for the smelling salts, removing antiseptic and suture materials that he would also need. The doctor gave a small grunt of approval as he located a small bottle which he then uncorked and waved in front of Mrs. Hudson's nose. Holmes wrinkled his own nose at the strong ammonia smell, but didn't speak or relinquish his gentle hold on their landlady's hand.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes fluttered a little, and then started wide in shock as she regained consciousness with a gasp. She immediately pushed herself upright in the chair and was attempting to pull her hand out of Holmes's firm yet gentle grip when he stopped her with his words.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said firmly, in a voice that brooked no argument. "You must be still. Dr. Watson is going to take care of you, but we need to keep firm pressure on this wound until he's ready. Moving too much will only increase the blood flow."

Mrs. Hudson blinked rapidly, and her face was pinched with pain and fear. The detective's sharp face softened a moment later as he perceived the tears in his landlady's eyes and he spoke more gently.

"Yes, I know. But you'll be all right. Just be still and Watson will have you to rights in just a moment." Mrs. Hudson nodded bravely, not speaking, but Holmes noted that the tears were now starting to slide slowly down her cheeks.

Dismayed, Holmes glanced around for Watson, as a weeping woman was very much not his area of expertise, but the doctor had gone into the kitchen for boiling water to sterilize the instruments he would need.

Sherlock Holmes uncomfortably brought up his other hand to rest on Mrs. Hudson's uninjured hand. He patted it awkwardly but gently. "Really, Mrs. Hudson. Everything will be fine. Please don't be frightened."

Mrs. Hudson seemed to give herself a little shake, swallowed hard, and replied: "Yes, sir. I'll try." She gave him a shaky smile and he found himself smiling a little in return.

A moment later Dr. Watson returned with a basin of hot water, soft cloths and a small bowl of rubbing alcohol. He set down the supplies before turning to his patient with a smile.

"Now, Mrs. Hudson. What did you do to yourself? I hadn't realized cooking could be so dangerous!" Mrs. Hudson smiled herself at his attempt to cheer her.

"Well, sir", she answered shakily, "normally it isn't, but when a body is in a hurry, and the knife is dull…" She trailed off, biting her lip against the pain in her hand.

"Accidents will happen", the detective finished for her as they both turned to watch the doctor's actions closely.

Watson had placed his stitching needle and a length of suture thread into the bowl of alcohol to soak before he used them. He took up a soft cloth, dipped it into the basin of hot water, and gestured to Holmes to release Mrs. Hudson's injured hand.

Taking up her hand himself, and holding it above the basin, the doctor gently began to clean away the blood so he could get a better look at the ugly wound. The water soon became tinted with red as the doctor's ministrations caused the jagged cut to re-open and begin to bleed heavily again.

"Yes, this will definitely need stitches, I'm afraid, Mrs. Hudson", the doctor said, nodding as if his suspicions had been confirmed. He set her hand down gently upon another clean cloth. "Would you like some morphine or perhaps laudanum before I begin?"

Mrs. Hudson's brow creased in dismay and she started to shake her head, but was interrupted by the detective once again placing his hand upon her arm. Looking earnestly into her face, he spoke gently but firmly.

"Mrs. Hudson, please let Watson give you something for the pain. It will make this easier for all three of us. Watson has sewn me up any number of times, and although I have every confidence in his medical abilities, sutures are quite painful even when the wound is shallow. With such an injury as yours, the repair will be much more detailed and will take longer, and I'm sure will involve a deal of pain. The entire process will proceed much more smoothly if you will agree to some morphine."

Their landlady sensibly acquiesced to this request, and Dr. Watson drew the required dosage and administered it into her arm in short order.

Mrs. Hudson immediately felt herself begin to relax as the pain faded from sharp intensity to dull throbbing. She watched as Dr. Watson removed the suture materials from the alcohol and placed them onto yet another clean cloth to dry. He took a wad of cotton lint from his bag, tipped the bottle of antiseptic onto it, and began to gently apply it to the wound prior to beginning to stitch.

Despite the medication, Mrs. Hudson gasped as pain shot through her hand at the touch of the antiseptic. Mr. Holmes immediately grasped her uninjured hand in his as the doctor finished his preparations and threaded the needle.

"Holmes, I'll need you to hold her hand still, and try to distract her. She doesn't need to watch", Watson said. Holmes nodded, and meeting Mrs. Hudson's eye, he began to relate to her tales of their cases and other doings.

What exactly he said during the next 20 minutes none of the three could remember with any accuracy, but his nonsensical chatter served its purpose. Dr. Watson was able to finish stitching her hand, Mrs. Hudson was distracted from the pain and uncomfortable tugging sensations as her hand was repaired, and Sherlock Holmes rambled on, carrying out the task assigned to him with aplomb, if not enthusiasm.

When he had finished stitching, Dr. Watson again dabbed at the neat line of sutures with antiseptic, and began to gather up his supplies.

Holmes gave Mrs. Hudson's arm a final pat, and then jumped to his feet. "Let me do that, Watson", he said. "I'll just take these things through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Mrs. Hudson looks like she could use a cup of tea." Watson agreed to this suggestion, and a moment later sat beside their landlady, taking her pulse and noting her respiration.

Mrs. Hudson was pale and her face was drawn, but her breathing and pulse were normal. Watson nodded in satisfaction.

The doctor began to wind a long strip of clean bandaging around the wound. "This will keep everything clean as it heals", he said. "I don't think we need be too concerned about infection – you keep an immaculate kitchen, and I've no doubt your knife was clean. But the bandage, along with the antiseptic is just a precaution." Mrs. Hudson nodded, beginning to feel a bit bleary as the morphine took further effect.

"Now let's get you to bed for a bit, Mrs. Hudson", he said, helping her to her feet and letting her lean on his arm. "Rest is the best prescription I have for you at this point. That and a nice hot cup of tea", he smiled as he led the older woman into her bedroom, and turned down the covers of her bed.

He waited discretely outside the door as Mrs. Hudson shakily prepared for bed, returning to the room upon her signal. The doctor pulled the comforter up over his patient just as Sherlock Holmes returned with a steaming cup of hot sweet tea.

Both men watched solicitously as their landlady sipped slowly at her cup.

"Now it's time for you to rest, Mrs. Hudson", Dr. Watson said, taking the empty cup, and removing the pillows which had propped her up so she could lie down.

Mrs. Hudson had been very quiet, but she suddenly gasped and attempted to sit up. "But your supper! It was almost ready, and I'm sure you must both be hungry! I'll just…" she stopped, seeing both men shaking their heads at her.

Mr. Holmes spoke for both of them. "You are not to step foot outside this bed, Mrs. Hudson! Watson and I are both quite capable of getting our own supper this evening. You are to rest, and let us look after you, for once." Seeing her about to speak again, he narrowed his eyes at her. "Do you understand?" he growled, in a passable impersonation of their landlady herself when one or the other of her tenants was being recalcitrant.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at that and gave in with good grace. She agreed to stay in bed for the evening and to call for them if she needed anything. She watched with a fond smile as her tenants bustled about, tidying up the mess from the hurried sutures, tucking in the covers around her, and asking solicitously how she was feeling. But the morphine was finally taking complete effect, making her feel drowsy and limp. Her last sensation as she closed her eyes was of her two young men standing in the doorway checking on her once again before she faded into sleep.

Both men continued to be quite attentive over the next few days, readily reaching items down from high shelves, arranging for the maid's hours to be increased, fetching her numerous cups of tea, and even assisting – somewhat – with dishwashing and cooking duties when the maid was out, as Dr. Watson insisted her stitches must stay clean and dry. Mrs. Hudson found that after getting over the shock of their uncharacteristically thoughtful behavior, she quite enjoyed the feeling and realized again how much she'd missed having someone to look after, and to look after her in return, without a man about the house.


End file.
